They telegraphed for her, although they hardly thought that she would reach the house before he died. But the fact that she was coming seemed to buoy him up: he lingered throughout the day, turning his eyes from time to time to the clock upon the mantelpiece, or towards the opening door. At night he grew restless and uneasy: he murmured piteously that she would not come, or that he should die before she came.
Brian, although in the house, held aloof from the injured man's room. Merciful as he was by nature, Hugo's offences had transcended the bounds even of his tolerance; and his anger was more implacable than that of a harsher man. Although he had been told that Hugo was dying, he found it hard to be pitiful. He knew more than Hugo imagined. Mrs. Luttrell had recovered speech sufficiently to tell her son the history of the previous night, and Brian was certain that Kitty's cry for help had come only just in time.
It was early in the evening when Hugo spoke, almost for the first time of his own accord, to his wife. "Kitty," he said, imperiously, "come here."
She came, trembling a little, and stood beside him, scarcely bearing to meet the gaze of those darkly-burning eyes.
"Kitty," he said, looking at her strangely, "I suppose you hate me."
"No," she answered. "No, indeed, Hugo."
"Is that mark on your forehead from the blow I gave you?"
"Yes."
"I did not mean to hurt you," he said, "but I think I was mad just then. However, it doesn't matter; I am going to die, and you can be happy in your own way. I suppose you will marry Vivian?"
"Don't talk so, Hugo," she said, laying her hand upon his brow.